


A Small Sip

by methylviolet10b



Series: Dinner Plans [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Prompt Fic, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Watson's wondering what's going on. A follow-on to Unexpected Course. Written for JWP #28.





	A Small Sip

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: I'm sure there's more of this somewhere, but I'm far too tired to know what it might be. Still related to two JWPs from last year, Dinner Plans and Indigestion, but I'm not sure reading those will clarify much. And absolutely no beta. Written in a huge rush. Be very afraid. I know I am.
> 
> Author's Notes: Written for JWP #28: No Ghosts, Demon Hounds, Vampires, etc. Need Apply. Well, what if they DID?

By the time we reached the top of the stairs, Holmes no longer leaned as heavily on me, but he was still horribly pale. Our sitting-room door stood ajar; neither fully open, as Holmes occasionally left it when he was in a hurry, or closed, as was his usual habit when leaving the room. More evidence, as if I needed any, that he had not left the room entirely of his own volition. But what could possibly affect Holmes in such a fashion? My friend had shown himself as someone magical beings feared and avoided – if they wished to avoid becoming a meal, that is.   
  
Holmes half-collapsed into his usual chair. “It’s all right, Watson,” he murmured. “I’m just very tired.” His voice, too, was weaker than usual, and his sibilants were not quite as crisp. I glanced at his face, and saw his jaw was jutting out somewhat. I imagined that if I could see his teeth, they would be closer to the forest of needle-sharp spikes I had occasionally seen than anything human-shaped.  
  
I knew what he needed. I hurried over to his chemistry table and pressed the corner of one of the locked drawers in a specific pattern. The front dropped away, revealing a tiny cavity with a dozen small vials. Almost half of them glowed with some kind of light; blue and red and cold-shining gold. I pulled out one of the latter, replaced the false front, and hastened back to my friend.   
  
Holmes did not quite snatch the vial from my hands, but it was a near thing. He tore the top off and quaffed the glowing contents in a single gulp. A moment later, his eyes slid shut, and he uttered a great sigh as faint colour returned to his cheeks.   
  
I idly wondered how Holmes managed to compound the content of those little vials. I knew it had something to do with chemistry, and something to do with the otherworldly creatures upon which he occasionally fed. Whether he ground up ghosts, distilled demons, siphoned spirits, or something else entirely remained a mystery, for he never engaged in such work when I was in residence.   
  
Perhaps my nerves were more shaken than I thought, if I was allowing myself to dwell on such trivial matters instead of focusing on the strange attack we’d just survived out on the street. I turned to the tantalus to pour myself a brandy, and noticed a small wooden box lying on the carpet near the wall. It was a pretty little thing, inlaid with various kinds of wood, about the size to hold a ring or other bauble. I bent down to pick it up.  
  
“No!”  
  
Holmes’ cry registered in my ears a mere moment before I felt his wiry arms seize me and pull me backwards, away from the box that had caught my eye. His voice whispered urgently in my ear. “Don’t look at it, Watson. It is not meant for you, and perhaps it would do you no harm. But I would rather not take that chance.”   
  
It was surprisingly difficult to listen to Holmes, to close my eyes and shut out the sight of that box. Instinctively, I reached again for the sgain dhu in my coat. As soon as my fingers brushed the metal, I was able to close my eyes.  
  
I also felt Holmes flinch. To his credit, his hold on my did not lessen. He half-carried, half-guided me away. Disoriented, I was unsure where he was leading me until I heard a door close. My eyes popped open.  
  
Holmes had brought us into his bedroom. I expected him to let me go now that we were away from the box, but he merely shifted his grip so he could face me and stare searchingly into my eyes. Evidently he was satisfied with what he saw, for he finally relaxed.  
  
“This is the second time today that I am glad for your habit of carrying cold iron,” he remarked. “I suggest you consider wearing some against your skin for the immediate future.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“Very much so.”  
  
I shrugged and stepped away to pull my grandfather’s knife from my coat pocket. “I’d ask why, but I suspect the answer might take a while.” After a moment’s thought, I pulled up my trouser-leg and tucked the knife into my sock, so that the garter held the pommel against the bare skin. “And we need to get rid of that box, clearly. I think if I go into the sitting-room like this, I should be able to pick it up with the fire-tongs without much risk of harm. Those are iron, too, so if you have something to drop it into…”  
  
Holmes nodded. “The largest retort on the chemistry table has a mouth wide enough to fit the box into, and I have several cork stoppers large enough to seal it inside once it’s there. I’ll watch from here.”  
  
That gave me pause. “Are you vulnerable to…whatever the hell that thing is, too?”  
  
“Only partially, now that I’m aware of it, but yes, it’s a definite danger. It caught me by surprise. I take precautions with my post, but I admit I never expected something like this to come in the mail.”  
  
“Another thing to explain to me when we have the time.” I opened the door and ventured out into the sitting-room.   
  
Fortunately it was a simple matter to pick up the box with the fire-tongs, and even manoeuvring it into the retort was relatively simple. I inspected the cork and made sure it had no cracks or chips before using it to thoroughly seal the container.  
  
Once that was dealt with, I turned to Holmes, still standing in the doorway of his bedroom. “Now, my friend, could you please enlighten me as to what is going on?”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 28, 2017.


End file.
